For Once and Always
by viennacantabile
Summary: And for Susan, everything changes when you only have yourself and the world you've created to forget who you once were.
1. once

Disclaimer: I'm not C.S. Lewis. Unfortunately.

Note: here is the obligatory Susan!fic. Because everyone's got to do one sometime. Enjoy!

--viennacantabile

* * *

For Once and Always

one - once

.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,  
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:  
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard  
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees  
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;  
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,  
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale  
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;  
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,  
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,  
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;  
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,  
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!

—William Wordsworth, "The Reverie of Poor Susan"

.

Susan is not a dreamer anymore.

After all, Narnia is better than any dream. Narnia is real.

Susan remembers the princes, the moonlit rides, the lovely people, and wonders when she will see them again. She misses them—of course she misses them. She hasn't forgotten that long and lovely other life she'd led as its Queen. How can she? She was beautiful, then.

The boys at school say she's beautiful now, but she doesn't believe them. She tries and tries to find the magic combination of makeup and stockings and clothes to transform herself into Queen Susan of Narnia, but she is always left plain old Susan Pevensie, staring in the mirror, scrubbing it all off with her tears.

But it's all right, really. She'll be back, someday.

She knows it.

So maybe she'll put away the glamour for now.

.

Another year, another visit, and Susan returns to her makeup.

Peter, Edmund, and Lucy think she looked better before, without all the fuss and bother. Secretly, Susan agrees. But the paint and fashion hide the part of her that wishes for talking animals and royal balls and a great golden lion—the part that is much, much safer to keep to herself.

_Lion_.

The word still hurts. The wounds are still raw. It was a lion who forbade the High King and his sister from returning to Narnia, for no other reason that Susan could see other than that they were getting old.

Old. At thirteen.

Susan doesn't want to be old.

.

Sometimes Susan wishes she _could_ forget. She thought she had, once, when Mother and Father took her to the sights and sounds of America. She'd loved the fast cars and dashing young Yanks and the freeness of it all. But on her return, Lucy and Edmund greet her with stories of an older Caspian ("He's just about your age now, Su!"), and the fantastic islands of the Eastern Sea, and always, always Aslan—

_Why them?_ she screams into her pillow at night. _Why not me? I've been good, I promise. It's not fair, and you know it!  
_  
It is then that Susan begins to resent her siblings.

.

And then Eustace—_Eustace Scrubb_, of all people!—goes on a quest to save a prince. Must be getting careless, she thinks, to let _him_ in again. Eustace Scrubb, honestly. The little beast. Is her family to be second to him?

Worst of all is the news he brings. Caspian—the bright, adventurous boy—an old man, dead and gone?

Bad enough, that her whole life in Cair Paravel is lost to the history books. Bad enough that she can never return. But now—another friend outlived, another friend gone. And still, she is left behind.

.

It would be better, she thinks, if she had never known him.

It is so much easier to pretend that it never happened.

It is so much easier to pretend that she was never a Queen in Narnia.

It is so much easier to pretend it was all just a dream.

Because Susan is not a dreamer any more.

.

Soon, it's not pretending anymore. Soon, it's believing.

And Susan, Queen of Narnia, forgets.

Of course, the Pevensies won't let her go without a fight.

"Susan?"

"Hello, Lucy," says Susan as she languidly runs a brush through her waist-length black hair. Try as she might, it will not grow longer, despite a childhood fancy for hair down to her feet. "Did you need something?"

There is a sound of shifting feet. "I—I wanted to ask you if you'd like to come along with us. To see the Professor."

Though Susan's expression in the mirror does not change, her mind is whirling. The Professor, who used to own the old house where the Pevensies stayed during the Blitz—which means the _wardrobe_. Which probably means—

"Susan—" Lucy says, hope palpable in her voice—"Peter and Edmund and Eustace and Jill and I want to talk to the Professor and Aunt Polly. To—to have a good jaw about the old days. About—" Lucy hesitates, then finally decides to take the plunge—"about Narnia."

Susan pauses mid-stroke. "Not that silly little game again, Lucy?" she asks incredulously. "I thought we were past this. Really, you're getting rather old for this, aren't you?"

"It _isn't_ a game, Susan, and you know it," Lucy says earnestly, blue eyes entreating her sister to _believe_. "The White Witch, a game? Caspian? And—" Again, Lucy hesitates, unsure as to just how far she can push her sister tonight. "Aslan. Was Aslan just a game to you, Susan?"

Susan sets the hairbrush down with a clatter and stands, nails digging into the polished wood of her dressing table. She is ruining it, she knows, but she is too angry to care, because that name sets her teeth on edge. "I'm getting tired of this, Lucy," she warns, barely able to keep her composure. "You're not a child anymore. The Professor's always been a bit..." Susan struggled to find the word—"_eccentric_. That's probably how all of us started with that ridiculous play in the first place. But Peter and Edmund shouldn't be encouraging you! That horrid Eustace, too, I don't know how you can bear him."

Lucy's quiet voice cuts through the clamor in her head. "If you believe all of those things, then Eustace is a truer Narnian than you ever were."

She doesn't know why, but this stings more than any cut or scrape ever could. Enraged, Susan is unable to control herself any longer. "And Edmund?" she hisses spitefully. "What of Edmund? The _traitor_?"

There is a choking noise from the door. Susan turns. Though Edmund stands there, it is Peter who cannot believe what he hears tonight.

"You—you are not my sister," he says, voice shaking with horror and rage and more pain than Susan can stomach. "You—are—not—Susan—Pevensie."

Susan faces him defiantly, pushing aside the little feeling of guilt that flowers in the pit of her stomach when she sees the look in his clouded blue eyes. "Oh, hello, Peter," she says nastily, "come to try to convince me to come along and play, too?"

Peter stares at her for a long moment, "Once a Queen in Narnia, always a Queen in Narnia," he quotes. He shakes his head. "You bore it well, once." Silently, the High King turns on his heel and quits the room.

"You can't fix everything, Peter!" she calls after him mockingly, though more to herself than to her brother. "Least of all, poor, unbelieving Susan."

She turns back to her remaining siblings with a toss of her lustrous hair. "Really, I don't know what all the fuss is about," she sniffs. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true. Did I, Edmund?" she asks pointedly.

Edmund advances on her. "My judge is Aslan and no other," he says calmly. "If He names me innocent, then I must believe that it is so."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Susan scoffs, piqued by the mention of that name again.

"Then why do you call Edmund a traitor, Susan?" Lucy comes to stand by her brother, who smiles gratefully. "Why do your accusations come from what you call a game?"

"It is a game," Susan declares vehemently, backed into a corner and unable to find another explanation.

Edmund gravely shakes his head. "I made peace with myself and my sins long ago," he says quietly. "But it seems you have yet to do that." He gazes at her for a moment, his gray eyes blank. "Once a Queen in Narnia, always a Queen in Narnia, Susan," he repeats. "You have made yourself forget the pain you felt when you and Peter were not allowed to return. And in doing so, you have forgotten Narnia herself."

His sister does not speak.

"Only Aslan can heal you, Susan. Only He can forgive you. And He _will_ forgive you." Edmund turns, makes for the door. "He forgave me, after all," he adds softly, without turning, then vanishes out of sight.

Susan can't face the wounded expression in Lucy's eyes, so like Peter's. "Leave me alone," she murmurs. She is suddenly so very tired. "Leave me alone, like the rest of them."

"Susan, Susan," Lucy pleads, "if you would just _listen_—"

"Listen to _what_, Lucy? Susan demands, suddenly furious once more. "The same lies, over and over again? No, thank you!"

"But you must remember _Aslan_—"

"_You don't know what it's like!_" she shrieks. The name is so hateful to her ears. "Every one of you believes so foolishly in your talking animals and countries in cupboards and"—it is hard to even say the word—"_lion!_ You don't know what it's like, Lucy! I never had any faith like all of you! None of it ever seemed very real to me. And just when I started to believe, to _know_ that it was real, I was told I wasn't to go there anymore. And I just—" Susan stands there, fists clenched, tears leaking out of eyes squeezed shut. She doesn't know when she'd started crying. "I am just so sick of things that aren't real, Lucy, do you understand that? Narnia isn't _real_, and no matter how much I hope and pray, it _never will be_!"

Susan doesn't have to see Lucy's crumpled face or the tears that are beginning to fall to know how badly she has hurt her sister. They used to be close, she and her sister. But things are different now.

Her voice grows soft. "Isn't it easier if you just pretend it was all a dream, if it all never happened? What's the use of Narnia if it's not there every time you look, Lu?" She sinks into a whisper. "What's the use?"

Lucy only looks at her. Lovely, pure-hearted, forgiving Lucy. Though Susan is considered the beauty of the family, at times like this, she feels inadequate standing next to her younger sister. Tainted, soiled, impure Susan...

When Lucy finally speaks, it is barely above a whisper.

"Once a Queen in Narnia, always a Queen in Narnia, Susan. And it will be there—if you believe."

And Lucy is gone.

Alone now, Susan sinks onto her bed, trembling. She has let herself speak of things that have not crossed her lips in years. Can't Lucy see that she cannot, _will_ not, allow herself to believe? She isn't strong enough for this.

But Lucy just doesn't understand. How can she? Lucy, for all that she is considered by most to be an adult, is still a child. An impractical, starry-eyed dreamer who believes in talking animals and chases shooting stars and rainbows. Belief is something instinctual to her, a trust that comes as naturally to her as breathing.

But Susan knows better. Susan knows about the rush of giddiness to her senses when a stranger brushes her waist just-so, or offers her the world, with the moon in his eyes. And even if his hands start to wander a bit after a few drinks, she doesn't care. Because that is something real, something she can touch and see and taste. And that is all she ever wants anymore. Not a beautiful illusion that will touch her head and heart and leave her always aching and wanting more.

If that is all reality is, Susan decides, she will take it. As long as she can keep it.

Because Susan doesn't believe in dreams anymore.


	2. sirènes

Disclaimer: last I heard, C.S. Lewis was dead. I am not. Therefore, I'm pretty sure I can't be C.S. Lewis.

Note: sirènes is one of Debussy's Nocturnes; I'd recommend it.

--viennacantabile

* * *

For Once and Always

two - sirènes

.

And so it is that on a blustery autumn day, Susan receives a visit that cannot be seen as anything but harsh, cruel reality.

He steps in, the young bobby, eyes nervously darting about. "Susan Pevensie?" he asks, tipping his hat.

She nods. "Yes, that's me." She's not bothered by his peculiar behavior. Men often behave that way around her. She's used to it.

"I—I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you, Miss Pevensie," says the man—boy, really, he doesn't look that much older than Lucy—wringing his hat. "You—you may want to sit down."

She waves his concern aside. "What's happened?"

"There's—there's been an accident. On the British Railways." He takes a deep breath. "Henry, Helen, Peter, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie were listed among the dead."

Inside, a tiny voice begins wailing like a siren. _FatherMotherPeterEdmundLucy_—"Anyone else?" she hears a calm, cool voice asking. Is that really her?

"I'm told that your family was close to a Professor Digory Kirke, Miss Polly Plummer, Mr. Eustace Scrubb, and Miss Jill Pole. And"—he pauses, hating himself—"being the next of kin, we'll need you to identify the bodies, if that's all right. Not now, but—eventually."

"Oh," she says faintly, "all right."

The bobby looks slightly relieved at her composed reaction. "Right, miss. And I'm terribly sorry, I am. If there's anything I can do, you just give me a ring." Tipping his hat again, he turns to leave.

And suddenly the ground swoops forward to meet her, and she collapses into dizzy blackness. _Miss, are you all right?_she hears dimly from the edges of consciousness. _Miss? Someone, please help—_

And then she is gone.


	3. lethe

Disclaimer: If I were C.S. Lewis, you wouldn't be reading this fic because Susan would be happily in Narnia already. And there would be much rejoicing.

Note: lethe refers to the river of oblivion in Greek mythology.

—viennacantabile

* * *

For Once and Always

three - lethe

.

Later, when she awakens, it is to a colorless, sterile cubicle full of steely metal and white walls and sheets and needles in her arm. She stares blankly at the ceiling. _Why am I here?_

A clucking. _Oh, she's awake. Poor lass._

Poor lass?

And then it all comes rushing back to her—Mother and Father—the Professor, Aunt Polly—Eustace and Jill—and—

_Where's Peter?_

Peter would never leave her here, all alone. She plucks at the nurse's sleeve. _Where's Peter?_ she asks.

Something hits her arm. She looks down. _Tears...?_

The nurse sits down, dashing at her eyes. _Miss Pevensie—Susan_, she amends,_ don't—don't you remember?_

_Where's Peter?_ she repeats frantically. _Where is he?_

A stifled sob from the nurse. _He—he'll be right here,_ she whispers. _He's on his way_. She hurries out of the room.

Susan returns to staring at the ceiling. Everything will be all right when Peter gets here.

.

They tell her Peter is dead.

She doesn't believe them, of course. She would _know_—no matter how far she has pushed her siblings away, she would know. Or so she tells herself.

Day turns to night, and still Susan refuses to accept it. Peter will come, she knows it. And Peter always makes everything better. It's one of the things that makes him so—

She can't remember the word.

Amazing? He is, but Peter—Peter is so much more.

Incredible? Not quite.

Marvelous? No. But closer.

She settles down to wait. It will come to her. Or she can just ask—

She bolts upright. Edmund!

She can't believe she hasn't thought of him before now. Dear Edmund—sweet, headstrong, cross Edmund—though he used to be ever so much worse, of course. Mother—Susan blinks—Mother used to tell the story of how they all went away to the Professor's house and Edmund came back a reformed character. And—

Just how did that happen, anyway?

For the life of her, Susan can't remember, though she can't understand why something so important should have gone from her memory. It must have something to do with those foolish, impractical games they'd invented. Games about football fields in cupboards and places called Nenvery or Calordash or some such nonsense. And always something about an enchanted chest—no, that wasn't right—closet? _Wardrobe_, that was it. They used to play in the old wardrobe in Professor Kirke's spare room.

She stares out the window for a change of scenery. The blackness is dotted with bits of sprinkled light scattered haphazardly across the stone buildings. Light is supposed to be comforting, but this glow is neither warm nor friendly—just a pallid little copy of the sun that hasn't seemed to reach her for such a very long time. For Susan, the night never seems to end.

And it's so cold.

She rubs her hands against her pale arms. The ice that bewitched her younger brother's senses has begun to invade her veins, slowly and painfully. She can almost hear the mocking peal of—

Ice? Bewitched?

Wherever did she come up with these silly notions, anyway?

Susan's head aches. But everything will be fine when Edmund comes. He will give her the word she is searching for, the word that is synonymous with _Peter_.

.

Sometimes, Susan wonders if Peter and Edmund are trapped somewhere, and that's why they haven't come for her. Trapped in a hole, or a room, or a—closet? Trunk?

Wardrobe?

She shakes her head. Peter and Edmund are much too sensible to shut themselves up inside a wardrobe.

_But Lucy isn't..._

Susan dizzily sits up. _Lucy!_

She rings the bell for the nurse.

_You've got to help her,_ she pleads.

_Help who?_ The nurse is puzzled.

Lucy, she says, _don't you see?_

The nurse sighs, but she is used to it by now. _Susan, darling_, she says, _why don't we get you a nice cup of tea, and I'll get the doctor for you?_

Susan shakes her head no. _If you don't help her, she'll be stuck in the wardrobe forever, and she'll have to live in Caremathia and marry Rabadu and—_she stops, confused. But that wasn't right...

The nurse takes advantage of Susan's momentary uncertainty to gently push her patient back down. She smoothes Susan's hair and tucks her snugly in, and Susan knows she is very kind. But she is not Mother, and Susan hasn't let Mother do any of those things for a very long time now.

_There, there, love_, she soothes, _Lucy's in a wonderful place right now. She's very happy, you know. She thinks of you often, and wants you to get well very soon._

_I _am_ well_, whispers Susan.

.

Sometimes Susan thinks back to the year everything changed. The year she and her family became something more than just siblings. She knows it happened. But she cannot remember _why_.

A battle, a sword, a wolf, a witch, a—her mind skips around the word _lion_—a—and again around _sacrifice_—a crown. But the door slams shut on her memory when she tries to go beyond foggy shapes and dusty images that have no real name. She only gets a headache.

_Why can't she remember_? Suddenly it seems so very important to remember where those summery days at the Professor's went.

Maybe if she does, Peter and Edmund will come and they can all rescue Lucy together.

.

Susan has come to hate the night.

She does not sleep. She stares up at the ceiling, straight at the walls, out through the window. And Susan shivers.

_Lucy, where are you?_

For a moment she thinks she hears the shimmering chime of her little sister's laughter, off in the distance of a land that is all warm sunshine and rippling golden fur—_where did that come from?_—but the sound is gone as quickly as it came.

And now she is alone again and she is so terribly cold.


	4. mnemosyne

Disclaimer: fanfiction, written by a fan writer? Huh. Who'dve thunk it?

Note: mnemosyne refers to the river of memory, also of Greek myth.

—viennacantabile

* * *

For Once and Always

four – mnemosyne

.

Time passes.

_Susan?_

She opens her eyes.

_Susan..._

She doesn't understand for a moment, and then she remembers where she's heard that voice.

_...Lucy...?_

Susan hears that familiar smile in her sister's voice. _The one and only_.

_Where in the world have you been?_ Susan asks, perturbed._ I thought you'd gotten stuck in a wardrobe_. She ignores Lucy's startled laughter. _You left me all alone in this place where everyone thinks I've run mad. I knew you would come, but they whispered about me._

Lucy sighs. _Oh, Susan_. She looks around. _I have to go, but—I'll come back. I promise._

_Lucy—!_

But she is gone, and the nurse is taking her temperature and wondering how a nice girl like Susan Pevensie ever started talking to herself about nonsense no one will ever understand.

.

Lucy visits her every Friday. They talk about everything under the sun—family, love, life, death. Soon, the real purpose of Lucy's visits becomes clear.

_Susan_, she says gently, _you must live_.

_Why?_ she asks dully. _What have I to live _for_? Anyway, I can't, I don't remember how._

A small, invisible hand takes hers.

_Then I will help you._

.

Slowly, Susan begins to remember what she once knew as well as her own name.

Peter, the boy who became the man who ruled by the will of the Lion and the love of his subjects. Peter, slayer of wolves and giants and champion of the persecuted. Peter, High King over all Narnia. Peter, the _Magnificent_.

Edmund, the wise, grave man that would never be in this life. Edmund, the fierce defender of Narnia. Edmund, the traitor who nearly sacrificed his life to save them all. Edmund, the Just.

Lucy, the Queen whose faith opened the door into the world they were all born for. Lucy, who reached deeper into Aslan's heart than any before or after her. Lucy, who loved Narnia. Lucy, the Valiant.

And Narnia, of the Walking Trees and the Living Waters. Narnia, of the Talking Animals. Narnia, for whom they had fought and bled for. How could she have forgotten?

She is Susan, the Gentle Queen. And finding her real self is like coming home after a very long and arduous journey. It is like everything has fallen into place, and the world makes sense again.

.

But of course, it's never that easy.

One day, when she is waiting for Lucy, _He_ bursts unpleasantly into her consciousness—and Susan beholds the Lion Himself.

Aslan, she whispers.

_Susan_, He returns, and she shivers in a way she has not since before Lucy came back into her life.

There is a long silence.

_Child_, he asks presently, _why are you frightened?_

_I-I-I_, she stammers, not knowing what to say. Then, composure lost, she gives a great sob. _I _abandoned_ You. I forgot Narnia, I betrayed my family, I _denied_ You_.

He says nothing, only looks at her with His great eyes.

_And I denied myself, as a Queen of Narnia. I—I'm so _ashamed_, Aslan._

A tear trickles down His fur.

He leans forward, and Susan flinches, expecting the worst. Instead, she feels a warm breath that chases the cold away.

_Susan, Daughter of Eve_._ You have suffered much. But believe Me when I say that you and Peter were not barred from Narnia because of any sin, or any fault of your own. There came a time when you had to begin to learn of your own world. So it was for you, and so it also was for Edmund, and Lucy. But I am in your world, as I am in Narnia, though you know Me by a different name. And you may yet rejoin Me, and your brothers and sisters. Once a Queen in Narnia, always a Queen in Narnia._

Susan can hardly breathe.

_You have only to believe_.

And he is gone.

.

Some call Susan's recovery miraculous. Within a week, she is responsive and fully alert. It is more than the doctors ever had reason to hope for.

On the one-year anniversary of the train wreck, she is on her way to attend the memorial service, when she decides to take a shorter way to the park.

There is not even a moment to look up before Susan is swallowed up in the lights of the automobile.

Such a pity, they say, she being so lately released from the hospital. Such a pity, with the whole family already gone. Such a pity, for one so young and beautiful as Susan Pevensie.

But Susan is beyond all of that.


	5. always

Disclaimer: while I very much admire C.S. Lewis, I of course can't claim to speak for him. Or be him, for that matter.

—viennacantabile

* * *

For Once and Always

five - always

.

Susan is warm, finally _warm_ for the first time since her last journey to Narnia. She stands in a valley wholly saturated with golden light. And everything is so very still. She can hear the chattering of Talking Animals, the burbling of a nearby brook. And somewhere, not too far away, she can hear Peter, and Edmund, and Lucy's laughter.

_Aslan_, she whispers again.

_Welcome home._

_._

.end.

_

* * *

_

Note the Last: short and sweet. I do apologize if this ended up sounding like the 154385874569285 other Susan redemption fics out there, especially the last line, but nothing else would work. That being said, the author respectfully solicits the favor of your review. Constructive criticism welcome.


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